


We can work it out

by kkslover9



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-17
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 19:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kkslover9/pseuds/kkslover9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Of course, I’d be bothered. I <i>like</i> you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	We can work it out

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently inspired by [this](http://28.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_li673cFvpY1qdpykfo1_500.jpg).
> 
> I'd still really like my OTP back.

After the game, they celebrate in the locker room, all singing and dancing. Marcelo wraps his arms around Mesut’s neck urging him to dance. Mesut grins and blushes as Marcelo sways in front of him and his eyes meet Cristiano’s. The other man simply looks at him, mouth turned into an ever-so-slight frown. Mesut takes Marcelo’s offer and begins to move along with him. Whistles and laughs fill the room. Cristiano is gone.

 

He wouldn’t call it a fight. In fact, he doesn’t know what to call it; he just knows it’s there and it’s forming a rift and he doesn’t like it. So, he visits Cristiano in that night. Rings the doorbell though he has no idea what he will say. Perhaps something will come to him before the door is answered.  
Cristiano stares at him from the doorway as though refusing to let him in and, when asked, steps aside reluctantly to let him slip passed. 

“I wanted to talk,” Mesut mutters (though about what he’s still not entirely sure). The older man makes no move to talk, just looks at Mesut as though offended by his presence. 

“I—We—What are we doing right now?” Mesut asks. 

“Were we doing something before?” Cristiano retorts nonchalantly. 

Mesut gulps, trying to get rid of whatever is keeping words from leaving his lips.

“You—you never called,” he stammers, “I tried calling you. You didn’t answer.”

“I was busy.”

Mesut grinds his teeth; he can feel the sting in his eyes. “That you couldn’t call me for a minute?” he accuses.

Silence.

“Did you even think about me at all?” Mesut shouts, “Do you ever think about anybody but yourself?”  
A cry comes from the next room; wailing. 

He storms out, making sure to slam the door behind him. Well, now it’s a fight.

 

During practice, Mesut’s passes to Cristiano are either sloppy or non-existent. Iker stops him on the way to the locker room. 

“What’s going on with you and Cristiano?” he asks.

Mesut shakes his head. “Nothing.”

Iker frowns. “Fix it.”

It’s an order.

 

Mesut isn’t sure this can be fixed. Cristiano doesn’t exactly seem willing and he’s not too excited to pursue the situation. Plus, he can’t do anything right now anyway. Cristiano’s not even there. Well, wasn’t there because he suddenly enters in a fit of fury and drags Mesut off by the wrist.

His back is pressed against a shelf—is this a supply closet?—and Cristiano’s face is bearing down at him. He’s close. Mesut can feel his breath on his face, smell the sweat from practice. The moan escapes his lips before he can stifle it. A look appears on Cristiano’s face but he grimaces and turns away before he can figure out what it is.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” Cristiano murmurs.

Mesut stares at his back incredulously. 

“I just—I don’t take injuries too well and I wasn’t in the best mood and I figured I should just focus on recovering.” 

“That doesn’t mean you can just ignore me,” Mesut says angrily.

“I didn’t think you’d be this bothered,” he explains. His shoulders slump and he turns around looking unsure, defeated.

Mesut sighs and places his hands on Cristiano’s face and pulls him down. “Of course, I’d be bothered. I _like_ you,” he whispers then presses their lips together in a soft kiss. Cristiano deepens it, pressing Mesut into the shelf; the contents rattle. 

“You didn’t look like you missed me,” Cristiano mutters, pulling away slightly.

A blush creeps up on his cheeks. “I only wanted to make you jealous,” Mesut mumbles, “I was . . . upset.”

Cristiano presses their lips together again, smiling into the kiss. “So, ok?” he asks, brushing his nose against Mesut’s cheek.

“Ok.”


End file.
